Blue Bottle Surrender
And you wonder what was in them,
poison or elixir?
Were they designed to help those who partook
forget or heal?
What need drove the purchase
and what whim made them keep the bottles?
Where did they come from?
Did they quietly wait on a shelf for the needy to find them,
or were they sold, slick as snake oil by a peddler passing through?
Did they work the promised magic
This is how my mind works,
to the beauty.
About this poem
Everything has a story. Now and then I get to hear it. More often, I don’t.